You have found so many reasons to reason your absence.
And I have found both, in your presence and absence, a stain of ink on the tip of my finger. If my quill was personified, I am sure she'd consider you a cruel mistress and be upset. My quill is always touched by your thoughts.
My quill has never made me wait for her. Even if I marry her, she'd let me touch her to write about you. To express your thoughts. She'd wear herself down and spill all of her ink for me. Even if it means to write about you. Even though she's a devoted wife, I have always found your thoughts more romantic and her silences more romantic than my writings.
This love is a wretched vex, I treat my quill the same way she treats the paper underneath her. She scribbles on the sheet and marks my feelings deeply on it. And the paper happily accepts all of it without any complaints. The same way you treat me and I happily accept all of it without any complaints.
I wish for the quill to find a writer, fond of writing. Not me, who's fond of you. I'll find multiple mistresses like whiskey, cigarettes, tears and silences. And my quill can always find herself with Shelley, Bronte and Hardy.
She births life with ink and let's me name you to her children, and you'd not even reply to my letters with your scent attached to it. Or your lipstick stain.
The audience has always admired the lace of my words. But couldn't ever realise quill's contribution.
The audience has always admired the lady behind the words and never the lady who wrote those words herself
I pray to the almighty to let me divorce with your thought and let me be abstinent to you.
And let me marry the quill who has always loved me beyond my love for you
[Edit : today is the day where I complete one year without you]
